


The New Measure of Enough

by a_frayed_edge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fallen Castiel, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_frayed_edge/pseuds/a_frayed_edge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years of searching for Dean and it turns out finding him was the easy part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place sometime in the future, after everything with the angels' falling has been dealt with. My goal is to keep it as canon-compliant as possible, so there will be spoilers for all aired episodes, including season nine.

It's been raining since he left Tulsa.

It's not a hard rain.  A little over an hour ago it slowed to a drizzle, and the mid-morning sun casts plenty of light onto the highway that's stretched out in front of him, so he can see just fine.  It had been pouring when he finished the job, though, and Jillian had been worried when he told her he had to leave, that he couldn't stay in town for even one night, whether or not she comped the hotel room.

"I really don't mind.  It's the least I can do," she'd said, soft brown eyes darting to the glass door of the lobby as a crackle of thunder ripped through the air loud enough to rattle the walls.  "You kept us from becoming the Overlook."

A couple of years ago he probably would not have understood the reference, but he's been reading a lot since becoming human, and _The Shining_ is one of his favorites, read so many times that his own copy - the copy that once belonged to Dean - is worn and torn and battered.  He carries it in the duffle he takes everywhere and tries not to think about the reason.

_("What's this one about?"_

_"Ghosts.  A haunted hotel."_

_"May I borrow it?"_

_"Sure, Cas.  Word to the wise, though.  Might want to leave the lights on.")_

He sucks in a breath at the jolt of pain that tags along for the ride down memory lane, and determinedly shifts his thoughts.  He's not supposed to think of Dean anymore, he promised himself that day in Albuquerque, empty shot glasses lined up in front of him like little toy soldiers.  It was luck and nothing else that Sam was only a couple of hours away, and as his friend - his best friend now - carefully pulled him to his feet, tucked an arm under his shoulders, and lead him from the bar, he'd looked Sam straight in the eyes and said, with all the bluntness he was famous for, "It's going to kill me.  Dean's memory is going to kill me."

Sam had stared back, eyes roaming freely over his thinning frame, the dark circles under his eyes, the stuttering tremble of his inhale, and nodded.  "I know, Cas."  He'd flinched a little at the nickname, because it didn't matter that it had been a very long time since anyone had called him Castiel, it would always be traced back to Dean.  "But you can't lose hope.  He's not dead."

He hadn't had the strength to argue; they would never agree on that particular point.

He's pulled from his thoughts when his cellphone chirps cheerfully at his right.  He glances over and sees it's a text from Sam, but makes no move to reach for it.  He knows what it will say, knows Sam's reminding him of their rendezvous for next week, but it's not like he could forget, with retail stores dismantling Christmas displays and the explosion of red paper hearts hanging in all the store windows.  January is coming to an end, and in just a couple of days he will have no choice but to start heading north, towards Kansas.  For now, however, he's pointed east, and he knows there's a place in Arkansas he can spend the intervening time.

His phone beeps again, but he ignores it this time, and distracts himself by moving over a lane to the left, and accelerating a little to stay with the flow of traffic.  Dean used to say that -

He quickly shakes his head, jumping from that train of thought before it settles in, before the grief is so crippling that he's forced to pull over.  He pushes the power button on the radio, and immediately begins fiddling with the dial, looking for something, anything, that isn't music.  Three months ago he stumbled on a modern . . .  What's that word, again?  Cover?  A modern cover of _Traveling Riverside Blues_ , and didn't move from his motel room for eight days, ignoring his phone and the eventual knocks that came pounding against the door.  When Sam finally kicked the door down and found him lying on his back in the same clothes he was wearing when they parted ways, staring blankly up at the ceiling, his terrified eyes had gentled to kindness and sympathy.

"Dean," he'd asked.  As if there was any question.

Cas hadn't been able to answer, the lump in his throat heavy and leaden, so he took a careful breath and pretended that the words were just words.  He said, "I don't like the radio."

He finds a station that's playing what he's come to recognize as "Talk Radio" and turns up the volume as loud as he can stand, hoping against hope that it will drown out the sound of the memories that threaten to burst his painstakingly constructed dam.  He tries to remind himself that he should expect it, that it's natural this time of year, as Christmas peters off and Dean's birthday looms closer, to be thinking of his late friend more.  But it's a point that's hard to drive home when, if he's honest with himself, he knows full well that it's not even really that much _worse_ as much as it's harder to _ignore_.  There are days where it's so tempting, the desire to replay his favorite pastimes with Dean in his mind's eye, but he's had two years to learn that the very instant he returns to the present the loss will be almost too much to cope with.  A lesson he's learned the hard way.

He's a couple of hours into Arkansas when his phone goes off again, ringing this time, and with a bitten back sigh he grasps it in his hand and presses his thumb against the bottom of the screen.  He's not in the right frame of mind to talk to anyone, but he and Sam agreed right after Dean died that they wouldn't duck each other's calls.  "It's not what he would want," Sam had said, and, though Cas had despised the idea and the pain that would come with being around anyone that reminded him of Dean, he couldn't deny the reasoning.  A little underhanded, if you ask Cas, who privately thinks Sam used the argument to ensure Cas didn't disappear, especially considering Sam's certainty that his brother is still out there somewhere, but he answers anyway.  "Yes, Sam?"

"Hey, Cas.  Haven't talked to you in a while."  Sam's greeting is cheerful, all smiles, but he and Cas have been the only family each other has had in over two years, so he hears the very subtle accusation.  He hasn't been ignoring Sam's calls, but his texts, Cas knows, generally go unanswered, and he's also usually the one to cut the conversation short when they speak on the phone.  He really does love Sam, it's not about that.  It's just . . .

"I'm sorry," he mutters after a moment.  He swallows thickly.  "I find this time of year to be-"  Horrible.  Ugly.  Heartbreaking.  "Harder than others."  He tightens his grip on the steering wheel of the beat-up '63 Chevrolet pickup he bought himself the night he told Sam they would have to go separate ways.  Sam had tried to talk him out of getting the thing, knowing enough about cars to know that the maintenance itself would cost five times what the truck did, but Cas had refused to listen, his eyes staying trained on the small, familiar emblem.

Sam sighs on the other side of the line.  "Yeah, I know what you mean.  The Christmas before Dean went to Hell was-"

"Sam," Cas interjects warningly.  They both know the rules.  Meet up in Kansas on Dean and Sam's birthdays, call each other for hunts when they need backup, and absolutely all Dean-related reminiscing stays confined to January 24th and May 2nd.  Cas has managed to avoid saying his name for a half of a year, why is it so impossible for Sam to do the same?  Doesn't he understand that Cas is only really able to function because he's trying to pretend that Dean never existed?

"Sorry."  He sounds it, and Cas feels a stab of guilt.  "I was just calling to let you know I'm going to be unreachable for the next couple of days.  I'm following a lead and I'll be out of cellphone range."

 _Following a lead,_ as they are both fully aware, is Sam-speak for _looking for Dean._ After the sixth wild goose chase, Cas had requested to be left out of the search completely, because even that small sliver of hope that filled Cas every time Sam told him of his plans proved to be devastating when Sam returned without his brother.  "Where," he asks after a beat.

_("I should have asked."_

_"Cas, this is not your fault."_

_"Of course it is.  When he said he was going out, I knew he was acting strange.  But he can be very defensive if he thinks he's being mollycoddled, and with tension being as high as it's been-"_

_"I know, man, I know."_

_"I should have trusted my instincts, Sam.  It's what he's been telling me since I fell, and I let him go to avoid an argument.")_

Sam's silent for a long time, and Cas wonders if his friend knows what he's thinking, remembering.  That's one topic that is never discussed, the night that Dean disappeared, but it doesn't mean that Cas hasn't replayed that last smile Dean tossed him on his way out the door, the way it didn't really reach his eyes, a thousand times over.  It doesn't mean that Cas ever stopped blaming himself for not listening to his gut.   When Sam speaks again his voice is so full of sadness that Cas' stomach clenches.  "I'll be in Foxwood, Missouri for three days, then I'm headed back to Lebanon."  He pauses, as though steeling himself.  "Unless you want to come home early?"

"No, thank you."  The response is immediate, reflexive.  He spends most of the year avoiding Kansas.

"Yeah, I figured.  Where are you going to be?  Arkansas?"

"Yes.  I imagine so."

The air charges with that familiar pressure, the one that springs up whenever Sam knows Cas is spending any amount of time in Little Rock, and he bites back the venom that rises in his throat.  He knows Sam has a problem with Teresa, but he's never said why, prone to general grumblings about how he hopes Cas has a 'nice time,' the clear implication being that he actually doesn't.  But this time, to Cas' surprise, Sam lets out a breath.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says.  "I know I haven't always been supportive about the idea of you and Teresa.  It's not something I can explain to you, to be honest.  I doubt you'd even believe me.  But If she makes you happy, then I'm happy for you.  I promise."

Cas hasn't laughed in so long that even he is taken off guard by the bitter bark that erupts from his throat.  "She doesn't make me _happy_ ," he answers, his voice mocking and maybe a little cruel.  "She barely keeps me sane."  He thinks of her long auburn hair and heavy, broken smile.  "This is not love, Sam.  The only thing I receive from Teresa is moments of comfort, nothing more."  And he hangs up the phone.

He arrives in Little Rock an hour later and pulls into the motel where they always stay when they're in town.  His second text had been from Teresa, saying she was already there, but he had assumed as much.  They haven't been whatever it is they are for very long, a few months, he thinks, but she knows him well enough to know that the last thing he wants to do the week before Dean's birthday, the week before seeing the Bunker again, is be alone.  Her strange empathy is one of his favorite things about her, and so when he enters room 228 with his keycard and she wordlessly offers him a beer, he affords her a rare smile.

"Thank you," he says.

She nods and twists the cap on her own before swallowing harshly.  "You get everything straightened out in Tulsa?"

"Yes.  It was a simple haunting, a salt and burn.  How was your vampire eradication?"

"No problem.  There only turned out to be two, and Brent was an hour out.  I had him meet me, but I didn't really need the help."

"It's always better to be safe."

"So you keep saying."

And this is the way the rest of the evening goes, because the thing about his relationship with Teresa is that he told Sam the absolute truth. Teresa is beautiful, he can see that plainly, but the amount of times they've been sexual can be counted on one hand, and the amount of months it's been since it happened cannot.  It's not about the physical.  She doesn't try to hug him when he says he's tired and is going to bed, she doesn't kiss him when she pulls back the blankets on her side of the bed.  She turns her back to him and faces the wall as he turns off the lamp and rolls over to stare at the door.  It's just nice having someone around.  She never met Dean, she's never met Sam, and so her connection to his life before is nonexistent, and he's not sure why, but it's a strange sort of relief.  It's in these days with her that he can almost pretend that he didn't lose everything the night he lost Dean.

*

The week following goes much the same way.  He and Teresa hunt a wendigo in the area, but for the most part they stay inside their room and order large pepperoni pizzas and watch whatever movie is playing on HBO.  There's not much chatter that passes between them, it's not really their way, but It's never quiet.  Teresa's six year old son was killed by a demon so he thinks maybe she's not fond of it either.  Sam texts him to say that he'll see him the 24th.  He texts back and says "Okay."

It's time to leave for Lebanon much sooner than he would like but as he's come to realize, the more he wants to put something off, the quicker it arrives.  As he reaches for the handle of his truck, he turns back to the motel room door and sees Teresa standing at the threshold, an expression of deepest sympathy sketched across her features.  He quickly turns away.

It's a ten hour drive, but he manages to only stop twice, for gas and food, because now that he's on the road, the only thing he wants to do is see Sam.  He's spent a week dreading it, but at the end of the day he misses his friend, misses looks that are drenched with understanding, misses the only other person that misses Dean as deeply as he does.  He even misses the place he once called home.

He pulls up to the Bunker and can't even fight the gasp that escapes his lips at the sight of the shiny, black Impala gleaming brightly in the sun.  He's stunned into motionlessness, slowing the truck to a stop and killing the engine.  He hasn't laid eyes on Dean's Baby in so long, years, actually, since he left Lebanon in his own vehicle.  When he met Sam for a hunt shortly after Christmas that year, Sam had said that the car was being stored and maintained under Charlie Bradbury's careful eye. _("She knows nothing about cars, but she's a good judge of people.  She'll make sure it's taken care of by the right hands.")_ Why would Sam bring it here, on Dean's birthday, no less?  As though its very presence isn't going to reverberate from outside, a constant, horrifying reminder.

He almost drives away, unable to face it, but finally he takes a deep breath and drags himself from the truck.  Sam was Dean's brother.  It's unfair to ask Sam to keep it hidden if it brings him comfort, Cas would never ask him to do that.  If this is what Sam needs to get through this day then Cas will find a way to deal.

There's another small sting as he withdraws his keychain from his pocket, the ring where he keeps only the Bunker's key.  It's a keychain Dean gave him shortly after he fell, and though it's always tough to see the two small letters attached to the ring, the cursive _CW,_ he would never be able to get rid of it.

Before he's able to unlock the door, however, it is jerked open, and suddenly Sam is standing right in front of him.

"Cas," he cries, and Cas is barely able to register the joyous smile spread across his face from ear to ear before he's enveloped in a tight hug.

"Sam," he greets as happily as he can.  The image of the Impala is still burned into his brain, however, so he's not able to muster even close to the amount of cheer Sam has.  Later he'll decide that if he hadn't seen the car to begin with, he would have been better at realizing just how out of the ordinary Sam was acting.  "It is good to see you, my friend."

Sam pulls back, and now his eyes are very serious, to a point where Cas' stomach turns over in fear.  "Dude, you have no idea."  He doesn't give Cas a chance to answer before he continues, his voice careful and even.  "I found Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

_By the time they pull up to the warehouse it's after two in the morning and the area has been deserted for hours.  The streets of Waxhaw, North Carolina don't see a lot of traffic in the middle of the night on Thursdays, and even the local watering holes have been closed since midnight.  It's eerie, but familiar enough to not be unsettling._  
  
 _A streetlight flickers to their left, but Sam is careful to park his car several feet away and under the cover of darkness.  Neither of them are new at this, and with Dean's life on the line it's not as though they can afford any mistakes.  Sam glances over to him, and Cas doesn't meet his gaze as they climb out of the car.  "This is where the demon said he would be," Sam says quietly._  
  
 _Cas doesn't answer, doesn't trust himself to speak.  It's been hours since Dean inexplicably choked out that he would be back, hours since he drove off to an unknown destination.  Hours since Cas has been able to breathe easy.  There aren't many things he misses about his angel powers, but the loss of being able to put his family back together with a simple thought has come as quite a blow._  
  
 _He scans their surroundings and when his eyes fall on the Impala, he sucks in a sharp gasp.  "He's here," he says, and he's not sure what makes him look up, what draws his attention, but he sees the shadow of Dean's easily-discernible form standing in the window, looking out onto the ground below him. For years - two years, actually - Cas will be certain he sees him smile._  
  
 _Just the before the whole place goes up in flames._  
  
 _Cas hears a shout - Sam's, he recognizes dimly - before he's flying to the warehouse.  Only he's not flying, not really, obviously, because humans can't fly, the best they can do is run and even as his feet pound mercilessly against the gravel he knows it's much too late.  "Dean," he tries to yell, but it comes out so hoarse and broken that he barely hears it himself._  
  
 _He reaches the burning building and the wooden door is searing hot but he doesn't care, not for a second and he jerks off his jacket, wrapping it around his hands before giving the door as hard a push as he can muster.  He almost can't believe it when the door gives in but what he sees nearly forces him to close his eyes in terror.  The flames are everywhere, covering every surface, every possible passageway to the second floor.  He's not going to let it deter him but as he makes to take a step inside, a strong, heavy grip catches his arms and hauls him backwards._  
  
 _Sam's face swims into view, tears leaking freely from his eyes, grief pouring from every inch of his frame as he sobs brokenly.  "Cas, you can't.  It's too late."_  
  
 _"It's not," he yells back, fighting desperately against Sam's immobile hands.  "Let me go, Sam!"_  
  
 _"Cas!  Cas, it's burning to the ground!"_  
  
 _"I don't care!"_  
  
 _"I do!"_  
  
*  
  
Cas hears the words, understands their meaning but doesn't believe it, pretends he doesn't feel his heart hammering frantically against his ribs.  "You found Dean."  
  
If Sam notices his skepticism, he gives no indication.  "Yes."  
  
It's not possible.  Cas knows it's not possible because Dean is dead, has been dead for two years, and things like miracle resurrections don't happen to Castiel, Former Angel of the Lord, anymore.  He hasn't had hope - actual, legitimate hope - in quite some time, and it's almost like he's forgotten what it feels like to have relief so strong and ridiculously sweet, warming him from the inside out.  There's fear too, waging a fierce war and he struggles to take a breath.  "A shapeshifter," he whispers as tears form in the corners of his eyes.  
  
Sam smiles sadly, firmly, before shaking his head.  "Come on, Cas," he says, his voice soft and low.  "Do you honestly think I wouldn't check for that stuff before telling you?"  
  
In spite of everything about the past that Sam's presence can inspire, Sam is Cas' best friend.  He fell into the role when Dean disappeared, and he knows more about Cas than anyone else.  He knows, better than anyone, the anguish and heartbreak Cas went through when Dean didn't come back, so there's no way - absolutely no way - that Sam isn't sure.  
  
Cas swallows hard and steals another glance at the Impala.  They'd found the keys in the glove box, as though Dean had known.  He tries for the words he thought he would never get to say: "Can I see him?"  
  
Sam smiles at that, wide and bright and Cas doesn't want to return it, but it's beyond his control.  "Yeah," Sam says.  "Of course."  
  
It feels like hours pass before Sam pulls the Bunker's door open, and it takes all of Cas' self control to avoid pushing his way to the front.  It's silent when they walk inside, and Sam is so damn tall that Cas can't see anything until he finally steps out of the way.  
  
And suddenly there's Dean.  
  
He looks different, and not in a way that Cas would have suspected, if he had ever entertained the idea that Dean might be alive.  He thinks he might have expected muscles slack from disuse, a body slim from starvation, but no.  Dean's eyes are as bright as ever, his biceps still taut.  But there's something harder in the set of his jaw, even as his lips perk up at the corners.  "Hey, Cas," he says.  
  
Cas' breath catches in his throat and the tears fall in thick streaks.  He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes so he moves instead, pounding down the echoing steps and he's in front of his old friend in three long strides.  His hands extend without his permission and grip the skin of Dean's bare forearms.  The moment he feels the pulsing  _alivenesss_ beneath his palms, he gasps out a broken laugh and stares up into familiar green eyes.  "You're here," he whispers.  "You're still-"  
  
Dean's expression falls into something so soft and warm and fond and when he reaches out and brushes the tears from Cas' cheeks, Cas swallows back a sob.  "Yeah.  You too.  I missed you, Cas."  
  
"I missed you too, Dean."  Dean's the first to fully react and he wraps his arms around Cas' waist and they're so close that he doesn't feel ashamed of burying his face into the curve of Dean's neck.  "I don't believe it," he says.  If he tightens his hold around Dean's shoulders, well, he's not ashamed of that either.  
  
Dean laughs, and his chest rumbles against Cas' own and it's perfect.  "Yeah well.  It was a surprise for me too.  I never thought Sammy would find me."  
  
"Nice to know I'm the one with all the faith," Sam jokes.  Cas meets his eyes over Dean's shoulder and beams so brightly that Sam's smile widens impossibly.  After a moment he reluctantly draws away but doesn't miss the way Dean's eyes flash strangely.  
  
"What happened to you," Cas asks, clearing his throat, unable to stop just  _drinking_ in the sight before him.  Dean is in the Bunker, he's standing in front of Cas, and he's right there, where Cas could touch him again if he wanted.  He almost does.  "I thought - I saw . . ."  He can't bring himself to finish, as though saying the words will remind the universe that Dean isn't supposed to be here and will snatch him away again.  
  
Dean nods.  "Yeah, that was me on the second floor of the warehouse.  I saw you guys too."  
  
And slowly he begins telling Cas the story.  
  
He had gotten a call at home, and though he's not specific about the threat that was made, it's clear that it felt very real.  He talks about the demon, because of course it would have to be a demon, abut how it had been a capture with an almost embarrassingly simple premise: get Dean alone and overpower him.  He says that what he thought would be an enemy or two turned into six, but he looks away when he says it, for the first time since Cas walked in, and he wonders if Dean went more willingly than he's claiming.  He doesn't think he wants to know.  
  
When he comes to a hand-off in Georgia, though, his monologue comes to a full stop and he's silent for several seconds before Cas realizes that he doesn't intend to continue.  "And?"  
  
"And nothing.  They passed me off to new uglies in Georgia, and two years later Sammy follows a lead sent over from  _Garth,_ of all people, and saved the day.  I guess if you've kept someone captive long enough you start to get a little lax on security."  
  
Cas stares.  "Yes, but what about the last two years," he can't help asking.  He doesn't want to dwell on the time either, but his best friend has been missing for a long time.  Hunters from all over the country were told to keep an eye out, Sam's diligent search was common knowledge, and still demons had managed to successfully hide him for so long.  
  
Sam's voice cuts in, and the note of frustration lining his tone manages to pull Cas' attention.  "Yeah, that's about as much as I could get out of him, too."  
  
"How did you escape the fire?  Or end up in Missouri?"  
  
Dean doesn't answer and something inside Cas goes cold.  He thought they were long past times of secrets and lies, thought they had learned how dangerous they were.  All secrets come to light, it's always been that way, and Dean's seen the effects of that more than any of them.  Demon blood and deals with Crowley, and that was only the  _beginning_.  
  
Cas takes a step backwards and his arms cross defensively over his chest.  "Why are you keeping this secret, Dean," he asks, no venom in his tone, no anger, because Dean's still alive and the relief over that won't dim.  
  
"You've gotta trust me on this one, Cas," Dean says.  His voice is determined but strained, and there's no question that a plea hides just under the surface.  "Sam and I have already had this conversation and I'm not changing my mind, so you need to let it go."  
  
"Let it go," Cas repeats blankly.  He could laugh.  "Do you have any idea what it's-  What I-  I thought you were  _dead!_ "  
  
"I know.  I'm sorry."  
  
It's not enough, not even close, and maybe Cas could summon indignation if he wanted, but the very last thing he feels like doing right now is arguing.  Dean stands silent, waiting, until Cas gives a halfhearted nod.  "This is not over," is what he finally settles on.  
  
Dean grins, wolfish.  "I can't wait."  
  
*  
  
Cas smiles that night more than he has in, well, years.  
  
Sometimes he forgets.  He looks across the dinner table and Dean is sitting there, laughing at Sam, shoveling apple pie into his mouth so fast it barely touches the fork, and he nearly falls out of his chair at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, the normalcy.  The last two years have been so dark, and he's been so alone, and now he's back at home as if he never left.  
  
They talk for hours, long into the night, until voices grow rough from use.  Sam tells Dean about the series of dead ends that lead him to his brother, and Dean tells them about the frustration he experienced the first six months of his captivity, trying to extort information from his captors about the state of the outside world.  He describes months of loneliness, nights he laid awake sure he would certainly escape, only to find that his brother and best friend had been killed.  
  
Sam is the first to go to bed, shortly after three in the morning.  On his way to his room he throws Dean a look heavy with significance that Dean almost seems to expect, but that Cas cannot begin to decipher.  
  
A stillness falls once Sam is gone, and Cas and Dean are alone, that stretches on so long that when Dean finally speaks again Cas is taken off guard by more than just the subject matter:  "So, tell me about Teresa," Dean says.  
  
For a moment Cas is stunned into silence by the non sequitur and he blinks to get his bearings.  "What would you like to know," he hedges as his face heats up and the flush spreads down his neck.  He hasn't done anything wrong, his relationship with Teresa, though unconventional at best, is his own business, but there's something accusatory in Dean's voice that shames him.  
  
Dean faces him, catches his eyes, holds them with an effortlessness that is achingly familiar.  For a moment he seems to struggle with himself until he asks, carefully, "How did you meet her?"  
  
Cas doesn't flinch but it's a near thing and the expression on Dean's face says very clearly that it doesn't go unnoticed.  But he doesn't comment, so Cas forces himself to answer the question.  "She saved my life."  
  
"I like her already," Dean says, but it comes out a little sarcastic, biting.  "A hunt?"  
  
Cas nods slowly.  "I was just outside San Francisco when I heard about a demon in the area.  I went to investigate and performed the exorcism, but he managed to get a parting . . . slice in.  Teresa was hunting the same demon and had tracked him to the alley.  When she saw what happened, she bandaged me up."  He doesn't mention that he laid there on the cold asphalt for over a day, drifting in and out of consciousness, or that he sobbed in disappointment as Teresa tended to his wounds.  He had been envisioning a reconciliation that he had craved far more than his life.  
  
Dean considers this for a moment, and Cas waits as though for judgement.  Again he reminds himself that he has done nothing wrong, save for eliminating a few details in his recounting, but there's no denying that it's guilt nagging at him.  Its whispers of  _disloyalty_ sound absurdly accurate for reasons he cannot guess at.  "Okay," Dean eventually says, as though he's come to some sort of decision.  "What I don't understand is why Sam wasn't the one to make you all pretty again."  
  
Cas hears the question within the question:  _Why did you hide from Sam the whole time I was gone?_  
  
There was a djinn in Arkansas that had known, had painted a stunning picture of the life he'd never allowed himself to consider: a house with a lawn and a garage and two cars in the driveway.  A bedroom painted dark blue with thick, heavy curtains covering the windows because Dean hates it when sunlight wakes him too early on Saturday mornings.  And  _Dean,_ with his arms curled around Cas' middle, his face buried into the skin of Cas' neck, his eyelashes tickling as they fluttered.  He thinks it was the first time he understood just how far the affection for his late friend had run, and though Teresa had been the one to find him and cut him free, the memory of the fictitious relationship had driven him to weeks of solitude.  
  
"It's my fault," he admits as the painful memory abates.  "Sam wanted to hunt together, but I refused."  
  
Dean does not look surprised.  "Why?"  
  
"I didn't like the way I felt when I was around him."  Dean's eyebrows raise, it's clearly not enough of an answer.  "I was grieving, Dean."  
  
Dean's mouth opens, but he sighs instead of speaking and nods.  "I get that," he says and he looks like he does.  
  
Several seconds pass, a weight in them Cas can't explain.  He's exhausted and this would be the time to say as much and go to bed, but he remembers the last time he took his eyes off his friend and his feet refuse to move.  
  
Dean gives a gentle smile of understanding and crosses the room to stand almost overwhelmingly close.  Cas' heart twists with something familiar when soft fingers tip his face up until their gazes connect.  He tells himself that he imagines the charge filling the air but Dean's dark eyes tell a different story entirely and for one bewildered second he thinks Dean is going to kiss him.  
  
He doesn't though, just chuckles and shakes his head.  "I'll still be here tomorrow," he says.  "You really don't have to worry."  
  
"I know."  Then Cas steps back and turns away, and it's so obviously a movement borne out of dishonesty that he can feel the disapproval rolling off Dean in waves.  
  
"Cas-"  
  
"Don't."  He's spinning around before he even realizes it, and the hot anger that floods his system sends the vitriol he's been suppressing rising to his lips.  "Don't stand there and tell me that everything is going to be fine, like the last two years didn't happen.  You  _looked me in the eye_ and said you would be back. You let us think you were running an errand when you were going off to sacrifice yourself, once again!  Do you have any idea what Sam went through, how many times he could have been killed?  Can your mind comprehend what Christmas is like, or Thanksgiving, when you've watched the best friend you've ever had die right in front of you?  What it feels like to have to keep going?  To have hunters you barely know come up and offer their sympathies?  Do you have any idea how many times I had to listen to stories of your bravery and heroism?  For two whole years you were dead and Sam and I were in Hell!"  
  
He means aim a glare at Dean, but when he chances a glance over, the ire evaporates.  Dean looks like he's been struck.  His eyes are wide, his face pale, and he's wearing an expression of naked guilt that brings a surprising lump to Cas' throat.  
  
"I'm going to bed," he says, not giving Dean a chance to argue.  He keeps his head down, but when he reaches the edge of the room he can't help the stop the next words from tumbling from his lips.  "Happy birthday, Dean."


End file.
